The monster within
by Little-Firestar84
Summary: Oneshot kind of 3.10 tag. after having to witness yet another AA meeting for a case, Patrick Jane gets some advice and words of comfort from Frits Howard, about how things are, how they could be and should be. Hints of JISBON, small xover with the closer


Disclaimer: ok, wait a sec, let me check on my legal papers...no, it's not here, not even here, ah, wait, I got it! Uhm, nope, I don't own the Closer, sorry. But I do own the DVDs, and the same goes for The mentalist.

a/n- a one-shot, post 3.10, kind of. I wasn't planning on wriitng anyhting about it, but... but, I was watching the closer season finale, and I realized that, this past season, they deal a lot more with the concept of "addiction". if, firts, it was junst hinted to, in this season we saw, and hear, a lor about it, for both the characters of Flynn and Fritz. Mostly, I loved the dialogue about addiction between frits and brenda in the last episode. it made me thought about Jane, among the other things, and, so, this come to live in an afternoon...

* * *

For the second time in less than a year, Jane found himself investigating a case that led to an AA group. This time, the location was different, which made it even more difficult to deal with. This time, it stroke home, almost literally, since where the cadaver had been found, and where the meeting was happening, was at less than half an hour from where he used to live, where everything changed… for the first time, at least. Lately, Jane had realized that things were changing again, and, if at the beginning he had tried to fight it, he didn't know if he could still do it. if, at the beginning, he had tried to see other women, "closer" to him (Kristina) to fight the close friendship he felt towards Lisbon, if he had even tried to distance himself from them, her in particular, having seen what could happen to whoever dared to get too close to him, lately, he wasn't so sure he could do it any longer, even after what had happened with Johnson.

He realized he couldn't fight it any longer when he switched from the attic back to his couch, and then from his couch in the bullpen to hers – lately, he had spent his whole time with hers, trying as hard as he could to be constantly at her side. He needed to be sure she was safe from Red John's grip, but not only that. He wasn't just scared of losing her to the killer as the leading investigator of the case. A part of him was scared of losing her to another man, a thing he had never took into consideration until Mashburn got back into the picture. He had always assumed Lisbon was going to stick around, be the good nun he knew she could be and wait patiently for him to be free from his self-imposed vow of celibacy. Like hell she was. Lisbon was, even if only slightly, younger than him, and was still a beautiful woman, and her past gave her such a deepness… beside, even if men stated the contrary, he still believed that there was nothing hotter than a woman with a gun who could handcuff you to the bed and have her wicked ways with you even if you are not so participant (but absolutely not contrary). And if said woman didn't seem exactly a though cop, but looked like a marvelous, pixie-like, raven-haired, emerald eyed, petite damsel in distress, it was even better, and hotter. It was logical men wanted her. And it was logical she had need she needed to fulfill, and it was logical she didn't go to him, since he was the one who kept saying "I'm married". He couldn't blame her if she wasn't going after him. He couldn't blame her if she wasn't waiting for him, but having her wicked ways with one night stands. If there was someone to blame, that was him and him only. Because he had been that stupid to classify what he felt towards Lisbon as physical only, as lust-induced dreams.

And, at the beginning, it had been only lust-induced dreams. He wasn't going to deny it. he'd never admit, not even under torture, how many nights he had spent torturing his body and soul with visions of the brunette on top of him, or, more often, underneath him (and other nice positions as well), both breathing heavy and moaning out of pleasure, screaming each other's name as they both fell from the edge….But, after they had both been kidnapped by that crazy girl, he understood he didn't care about Lisbon just in that way- or maybe it was the day she told Hightower she trusted him, he wasn't sure. He just knew that, after they had risked dying, his feelings changed. Or maybe that even had simply made him realize what had been right before him the whole time.

It was about that time that the dreams changed. If, at the beginning, he was having only extremely vivid dreams about having sex (what a euphemism) with Lisbon, lately he simply dreamt of her… them, and, even when he dreamt of them busy with an activity that required lack of clothes, it was never about lust or sex. It was about love. So, he started dreaming about making slow and tender love to her on the beach at night, with the marine breeze and the stars as only witness, with the salty water gently skimming over their naked bodies, melted together (her secret fantasy for their first time, he knew it); he dreamt about having breakfast in bed with her; he dreamt about a small wedding in a small chapel, where she could see her family reunited after so long, finally happy; he dreamt of playing together in the garden of a small house with a dog and two kids, a dark-haired, blue eyed girl and a blond, green eyed boy, a perfect mix of the both of them; he dreamt of slow-dancing with her at school reunions (places she dragged him to in order to show what an amazing and handsome and smart and funny boyfriend/husband she got) to the notes of "More than words"; he dreamt of asking for her hand in marriage, sometimes with clichés, sometimes not; he dreamt of kissing her curled on the couch while they were supposed to look at a movie; he dreamt of picnics in the park… In short, he had fallen in love with her, fallen in love yet again even if he had never planned to, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. But it had happened. It had happened, and he was sick and tired of fighting it, scared of losing her because he was being a coward and was wasting time… he was in love with Lisbon, and had knew from quite a long time (since the day they ended up locked into that crate, at least) that she felt the same, that she loved him, but was scared of being the first of telling him, sure he didn't feel the same, sure he wasn't going to put her first, and, besides…. Besides, was he really going to blame her if she hadn't man up enough to tell him how she felt, when he had told her how he planned to kill in cold blood Red John with his own hands, when he told her that he was going to kill him or dying trying? Could he really blame her if she wasn't willing to make such a step, when the outcomes always seen her heartbroken, with the man she was in love with dead or in jail or sentenced to death? He wasn't going to blame Teresa for that. It was his fault. He had made himself unavailable, as unavailable as one may get, and that was the result. She is so scared of losing him she didn't even try to have him in the first place. Essentially, it's his fault because, as always, he had been a cynic bastard. But, really, he couldn't go on this way. He had to stop the dreams, he longed for them, he had to make them turn into reality… but, to do so, he knew he had to do something first. If he wanted to finally have Lisbon, if he wanted to have that future with her, he had to get rid of his addiction first. He had to let it go of the past, of the thirst for revenge… he had to let it go of the promise of killing Red John with his bare hands, killing or got killed, killed or in jail or sentenced to death…. Because, otherwise, he'd never have Lisbon, and life without her, right now, is simply… impossible, inconceivable and irrational and so on. Not having Lisbon in his life, as the woman he is in love with, is no longer an option.

"Let me guess, you are a newcomer" a man, around his age, dark and tall with a wedding ring, well built, sitting at his right in the circle, awoke Patrick from his reverie. The stranger offered him his hand, and the consultant accepted it, with a tired and uneasy smile. At least they didn't do hugs. He is uncomfortable with hugs, if they don't come from Lisbon. He'd do everything in the word for a hug from Lisbon, or for being carried by her. That time he was drunk he enjoyed, even too much, being carried into his apartment by her. Had he been more drunk, he'd end up telling her sordid details of what he'd like to do to (and with) her… "I'm Fritz, by the way"

"I'm…uh…I'm Patrick. And, no, it's, actually, my… third time, I guess." He paused, gesticulating around to distract his "opponent", who looked a lot like a cop. No, not a cop he realized, but a federal. Yep, whoever this Fritz character was, he was a federal. He'd say FBI. "But it's the first time here. I'm not from around. It is just that… I was in the area on work, and so… it's just that… I felt like… clearing my mind, let's say." And it was true, he realized, noticing only then that they were almost completely alone and that almost everyone had already left. He had been so lost in his personal Lisbon-induced reverie; he hadn't listened to a mere word, he hadn't even noticed that they had started the meeting or that they had ended it, not until "Fritz" had awakened him. _Lisbon's gonna kill me. if I'll keep going on this way, she'll end up killing me, or kicking my ass out of the CBI, and this way I'll never get my chance with her, I'll never able to show her I'm a different man, I'll never be able to defend her and…_

"Do you want to talk about it? You don't have to, but I'm telling you, I've been where you are before, and I felt better after I talked with someone about it." He told Patrick with a smile, opening and then closing his arms like in invitation. _Don't hug me, please, I don't do hug if you're not called Teresa Lisbon…._

"Uh, well, I guess…" Patrick looked around, taking a deep breath. They were two of the few lefts. And he hadn't seen the meeting start, even. Besides, this guy was kind of a detective, and finitely not the murderer. And he wasn't going to see him ever again, so. "Are you sure am I not taking too much of your time?"

He scrolled his shoulders, leaving his seat and stretching a bit, hands in his pants pockets. "My wife is in work-mode and sugar and chocolate deprived, meaning she'll stay up until at least 4 in the morning, that if she'll go to sleep or of she is at home, which am I not sure, which means that, even if she is indeed at home, she'll be insufferable. Best thing that could happen to me is receiving something in the head, which let me tell you, it's not that nice, as much as I love her." he turned around, biting his own lips, and then gestured for the exit with his head. "I'll tell you what, I'll buy a cup of coffee and we'll keep talking, how do you feel about it?"

"Tea" he just answered, foretasting the hot beverage and hoping that the wherever they were going was going to serve a decent tea and not some herbal disgusting thing. He turned to look at his new "friend" and clarified the situation and his only word, since Fritz seemed a bit lost "I… uh… if you don't mind, I'll drink tea myself, but you can have as much coffee as you wish" Deep inside, Patrick, talking about coffee, though, couldn't help but smile, thinking about the fact that he was pretty adamant he needed to get used to, at least, the taste of coffee if he wanted to kiss Lisbon senseless as he wanted to do…

Ten minutes later, Patrick and Fritz were sitting, one in front of each other, at a table of the cheap bar, both playing with their cups and both in silence, Fritz looking at Jane and Patrick looking at his wedding ring. At the end, it was the consultant to take a big breath and break the silence. "It's just that, I feel like I'm in such a deep hole, and I don't know how to dig myself out… and… I don't know if I'm _allowed_ to dig myself out of it, you know? And… I'm not sure I can do it, every day, every damn day I tell myself today is the day, and then… "

"Listen, it's not how you do it, right?" Fritz told him, almost a whisper, facing Jane at eye-level "You just say I'm not gonna think about it today. That's it."

"Listen, Fritz, it's just… you don't understand, ok? It's a bit… harder than… no, not harder, it's the wrong word, and it is just… different. The fact is that…" Patrick looked around, then in front of himself at the other man, at loss of words, at loss of possibilities. He didn't know what to do, what road he was supposed to take. He was a desperate man, a desperate man who needed advice, and, apparently, the federal in front of him was the only one he could currently trust. At least he knew he wasn't the killer. "I'm not an addict." He admitted, feeling, for the first time, ashamed about a "little" lie.

"Wait, hang on, you… you lied about you addiction?" Fritz, shaking his head, a bit red in the eyes, jumped from his seat, but Patrick was quicker than him, and, with desperation in his voice, stopped the man, grabbing him for the right arm, forcing him to seat once again, this time at his side.

"Listen, I'm telling you this only because your whole demeanor screamed you are a cop, and, I'm a cop either, kind of, so…" Patrick took a big breath, then come back to look at the federal once again, and told him what he felt like sharing, at least, the words that were able to leave his mouth "That I'm not an addict… I… well, that's… that's not strictly true. I DO have an addiction. It… and…it destroyed my family, but, I… I… I can't talk about it….it is… it's so hard, and I… It's not that I don't want to. It is just, I have so many bad things in my head that I'd… I'd like to throw up. If I start talking about it, I just don't know if I'll ever be able to stop… and… but I don't want it to destroy whatever chance at happiness I have, but I'm not sure…"

"Listen, Patrick, I'm going to tell you a story… well, not exactly a story, but… you'll get it." Fritz got closer and closer, so that they were just whispering, and he was sad, and serious, and enraged at the same time. "My wife, she is a cop as well. Around Christmas time, she is working a case, two kidnapped girls, one of them found dead. The only one who seems to know something about it is a kid, late twenties, former super-rich, lost everything last year in the crisis, and a junkie that does his best to stay high. She talks with him, he tells her it was this robber to do it, and then she talks with the robber, who gives another version. Meanwhile, time passes, and another girl could die any minute, but she keeps saying that the rich brat is just an immature child who can't harm a fly, ok? So, I am at her office, and hear what people is saying and o go to hell and I tell her, there is this conversation that we never want to have; we've put it off as long as we could. I tell her, I am an alcoholic, which means I am an addict. And, you think you know everything about this kind of stuff, but you don't, really. You think you are getting it right but maybe you don't. So, I tell her to look at me, and tell me, am I good guy? Do you think I am a good guy? And, she answers me, of course I do. And then I tell her a story. I tell her what happened two days before I got my second DUI, how I wake up hangover, and I'm getting ready for work. My jacket is on the couch, the keys are in the door, nothing weird, _but_ my gun is missing three bullets. She looks at me, in shock, and I go on, telling her about when I walk in the garage, seeing I've shot up in the driver's side of my car. And I ask her, what if I had been out on the town, what if I'd been in a hotel? I could have killed someone, and the worst part of it, is that I kept drinking, for two more days. Took me getting another DUI before I asked for help, and the only reason I did it was because my career was on the line, not my family, which I had at the time, but _my work. _ That was how dangerous I was. And… when I'm finished, she looks at me, and tells me, you're making it sound like you are some kind of a monster, and you're not, you're the most decent person I know. And… it broke my heart, heaving to tell her that I was both." Fritz paused, looking at Patrick, seriously but yet tenderly "Tell me, Patrick, do you have a reason to live? Do you have something, or someone, good in your life?"

He nods, and, almost whispering, confesses the truth. "Her name's Teresa. We… we just for together, but… but I do love her, a lot, and… I'm almost positive she loves me back, only, I… I haven't found the courage to tell her that, also because of… of…"

"Brenda" Fritz adds, smiling lightly at Patrick "My new addiction is called Brenda. We used to work together in Georgia, then I moved here, and then one day I met her here at a conference. We were both single again at the time, so I decided to man up and make her my new addiction." He woke up and left, but nor before having put a hand, reassuring, on Patrick's shoulder, and a piece of paper on the table. "Whatever happened, forgive yourself. Tell her what you feel. Get rid of your old addiction, and find a new, saner one. Don't turn into a monster, but in the right man, the man she deserves you to be, and if you don't, or can't, do it for her, do it for yourself. "

When Fritz was outside, Patrick took the piece of paper, handwritten, in his hands, and red it, many, many times. _God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. _He could still change. He hoped he was in time, and that he could be, it could be, enough to win her hearth.


End file.
